Quirrell's Discovery
by Eric128971
Summary: The background story on how Quirrell came upon possession of Lord Voldemort. I imagined what might have occurred when J.K. Rowling referred to this experience involving the undead, an old hag, and Albania.
1. Prologue: Waking Up in London

_Look up. Do you see it?_

I welcomed my face to the idea, raising my chin and closing my eyes. The shower rain slid off of my face, spattering on the tile floor and onto my feet. Water condensed into little spheres on the skin. They mirrored my fair flesh, resembling dark pearls in the mist of the Piccadilly apartment shower. It was warm. And yet, I shivered as I imagined just what could be.

A world without magic.

Outside, London writhed. Too many feet pressed into the too-worn-out-earth. 16 million hands each holding not a wand or a walking staff—but pink dog leashes with black-pawprint designs, plastic green coffee cups, plastic blue money, plastic _iPhone_s. The London of the 21st Century—_their London, the Muggle London_—was every ersatz color except the ones that mattered most. What were their skyscrapers—those phallic heaps of steel—in comparison to a single Patronus Charm? Fenrir Greyback's patronus is a truer silver. True silver breathes, howls, and stalks between trees and moonlight in the evendim of night. What were the vaunted illusions of their television and movies, in comparison to potions that could transport your mind to another plane of existence?

The Ministry of Magic would tell you that the worlds of Wizards and Muggles are now separate. "Separation" is preached by the Minister, "Separation" is selectively enforced by the Ministry, and "Separation" championed by the ever-growing demographic of half-bloods, mud-bloods, and squibs. Hypocrites.

I _willed_ for the showerhead to cease. The last of the water ran down my broad shoulders in rivulets like tiny snakes, soundlessly slithering onto the floor and then down the drain and into the deep.

The truth is that "Separation" only now exists in the pages of _Hogwarts: A History._ Britons—magical and non-magical—have always lived side-by-side, and while the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy has deprived one species the awareness of the other, the gene pool is not separate, but muddied at an unsustainable rate. As blood drips silently from a slow wound, do mudbloods increase with every generation. Those with the chance affinity for magic—but without magical heritage—those _mudbloods_ are the very clot of the problem. They increase the likelihood of squib descendants, destroy the sacred diversity of family magics, and the diminish the average capability of the British witch and wizard. Even worse—as in the case of the Potters—they attack the very foundation of Magical Civilization by breeding with the pureblood families that gave birth to magic in the first place! Even the thought of such actions made me regret turning off the shower, and yet I have begun a train of thought I could not help but finish.

Goblins whisper of rebellion in the hidden caverns of Gringotts. Centaurs prowl the hinterlands, growing bolder with raids on the isolated wizard-hamlets to the north. Muggle technology has matured to interfere with our wards, their colorless world ever-encroaching on the vulnerable diversity of our own magical one. Where can the mer-folk go, when Industry pollutes entire oceans? Will giants go extinct on the Continent, as they already have in Britain? When I started my…_purification_ of the Ministry, it wasn't out of self-centeredness, or spite, but an act of love. I love magic. I love my family. And because I love, I want to protect the world I inherited so that it may _flourish_. Not as a larger world or more "accepting" world…but as a recognizable world. As a stable one.

I slipped on the heavy black robes of a martyr and seized my wand. The water that had not-yet dried trickled down my slender fingers and onto the tip of my wand, from where it splattered onto the tile floor. I could hear each drop. Like the blood of mudbloods, seeping into our world. I detested that noise, dried my wrists, and apparated to Godric's Hollow.

"My Lord." A Death Eater bowed. "We move on the Potters at your command."

I gazed past the lightless bedroom window of those who had trice defied me and to the stars.

"I suppose even Muggles can appreciate beauty." I whispered.

"_Marauders_."

Starlight from my wand. Then the Potter Family gate swinging inwards, courtesy of James' naïve trust in Peter Pettigrew.

"Do you want us to accompany The Dark Lord?" The same Death Eater supplicated.

"Even Muggles possess the concept of 'destiny." I declared. "This is something only I may do, even if it brings me no pleasure."

I hesitated over the threshold. The better half of my blood began to race, alerting me to the sudden change of pressure outside. I cast esoteric detecting spells my servant would have been incapable of executing; a final check to see if my lookout missed any of their defenses. Nothing.

_Perhaps the pulse is quickening because blood cannot lie to itself. _I thought. _I am here to kill a baby._

My mental dialogue continued as I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head and crossed to the Potter's front door.

_But the real murderer is Lilly Evans. _I rationalized. _She murdered the Potter name when she adulterated the pureblood family with her heritage. I may be killing a baby, but the Muggle-born prevented centuries of healthy magical stock. Even without me, the magic of this bloodline will eventually die out. _

"Are you positive they are all present?" I hissed over my shoulder.

"Yes, my lord." Death Eater Avery Snr replied. "Their hovel is even more Muggle-looking than the Dursleys."

"You would know." I snickered.

Avery had been the Privet Drive lookout for the last three months, assiduously patrolling the area and observing Lilly's relatives. He had next to no impression of the unremarkable horse-faced wife and Lilly's portly brother-in-law Vernon. From Avery's descriptions, the Dursley's chief goal in life was to work, appear socially respectable, and to buy presents for their obese spawn. This was the kin of a pureblood wizarding clan, and yet none of great arts—Divination, the Dark Arts, Potions—were a part of their life. I respected my Death Eater's endurance; like me, Avery Snr understood that to observe the Dursleys was to observe the future of Britain's wizarding community, to observe the future of magic.

A world without magic.

From time to time the Muggle Vernon would go into his study and total his receipts for the month, checking them against his account while surreptitiously making pleased noises to himself. _Typical_. All Muggles hoard their wealth. In this land it is printed on plastic. In others as a pale green paper. All Muggles waste this wealth, dying surrounded by everyone's name except their own, names uttered with the same frequency and respect due _jam_, _tea, _and _cake._ Truer green is a spell that I know well. And true names are invoked only by those who do not fear death.

I entered the residence and found myself eyes-level to an 11-inch mahogany wand. The arm was attached to the muscular frame of a man with round wire-frame glasses and everything to lose. James Potter. The Gryffindor's lips were pulled back into a snarl as he announced my entrance.

"Voldemort."


	2. Albania

"You can do this, Quirinus." He encouraged himself.

Grasping the plant with callous less fingers, the wizard used his index finger to roll the pliable stem over his thumb. The flower of the wild clover angled towards him, its long white petals appearing as if dipped in purple dye. The _Trifolium hybridum _detached from the earth with a small *pop.* Holding up the plant to the sunset, Quirrell observed the light painting an apricot yellow-pink into the tiny canvases of those white petals. Slowly and deliberately, the Hogwarts professor placed the flower among the other two dozen in his basket.

"That's enough for today." Quirrell declared. "_Wingardium Leviosa_."

The wizard's alder wand cut through the crisp fall air with a _swish _and _flick. _A forest of trees crackled in response, answering with a shower of vermillion and gold leaves as the troll's corpse floated off the ground. With a savage gesture, Quirrell hooked an imaginary cord, then extended his arm in front of him, wand outstretched as his defeated attacker floated in front of him.

"Join me for a walk?" The professor queried.

Shkoder Village was less than a mile from where Quirrell had defeated the blue-skinned mountain troll. The Albanian subspecies were more virile and intelligent than their Britannian kin, but they had nasty allergies. The man smiled to himself as he imagined what the villagers would think when the great foreign wizard returned to the village with the terrorizing troll in tow. Quirrell smiled even wider when he remembered the fight. He had _felt_ the troll before he saw it, instinctively rolling out from under the club just after its shadow fell over him. Field clover erupted from the ground upon the troll club's impact, soaring into the air and then enlarging to three times their size as the Hogwarts professor's charms took effect. The ambushing troll had not even the time to raise its club for a second attack when two hundred flowers were magically directed into its left nostril. They filled the cavity of its head. The mountain troll roared in anger, the sound of its scream raising in pitch until the clovers returned to the field, red and wet from the troll's exploded skull. None of those flowers had landed on Quirrell, the liquid splattering everywhere except where the wizard stooped to examine a plant.

The Albanians had not hired him to dispatch of the monster, but the North Irishman was going to collect clover for his collection anyways, and at least now he could ingratiate himself to the community. In return for the help he had only two simple demands: lodging, and information.

* * *

Located on the border of Montenegro and Albania, Lake Shkoder was an important outpost in the wizarding community of Southeastern Europe. It marked the furthest extent of western magic; from there extended the frozen domain of the pureblood Czars and the enigmatic warlocks of the East. Even The Dark Lord had not reached this far, his network of Death Eaters extending only as east as Bucharest and as south as Trieste.

"Thank you again for your help." Besjana Bagfoot praised. "That troll had driven off so much of the animals we rely on for food."

Quirrell smiled as he tightened the mauve fabric of his purple turban. He did this whenever he was nervous. And with Besjana the witch gazing up at him with her warm brown eyes, the man found himself tightening his turban a lot. In five minutes it would give him a headache. For now, the pressure of the turban was reassuring.

"It was nothing." Quirrell replied magnanimously with a wave of his hand.

"Are you experienced fighting the mountain trolls of your country?" Besjana asked. "Why would your heroism be 'nothing' to you, if it takes three Albanian wizards to down such a monster?"

"A-aaah." The wizard puffed. "If you must know, I am a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The soft brown of Besjana's eyes contrasted with the whites of her eyes as she exclaimed:

"You're a professor at _HOGWARTS_? The most prestigious magical institution in Europe?"

"I am." Quirrell declared.

"Everyone, _eja ketu_!" Miss Bagfoot called for everyone to come nearer. Of course, all of Shkoder village was already present in the wooden tavern, but at the young witches' encouragement, several men drew closer and a brave local child even touched the foreign wizard's exotic turban.

"What are you a professor of?" Another man asked. "Divination? Magizoology? Defense Against the Dark Arts?

At this, the professor's eye twitched. He paused, surveying the small crowd.

"—Well?" The Albanian followed-up.

"M-m-muggle Studies." Quirrell stuttered.

A gravid pause. Then , the man was laughing, and the rest of the rabble joined in the sound.

"Muggle Studies!" He chuckled. "So _that's_ where you got the rag on your head!"

Laughter. Quirrell adjusted his turban and searched the mocking crowd, eyes locking with a distraught Besjana. She was elbowing the men around her to cease, but they began making jokes at his discipline's expense. Even the tavern keeper—whom had gratefully offered Quirrell free ale before—was holding back mirth. Distraught, the North Irishman adjusted his turban again. Whether being mocked for his profession, or because of the pressure, Quirinius was beginning to experience the onset of a painful headache. Thankful that no one could see the blood rushing to his ears, Quirrell fled the tavern. He magicked the door shut, then slammed painfully back into it as he was pulled by his black cloak. It had caught on the doorframe. Too embarrassed to focus, the wizard grasped the fabric with both hands, tearing off the hem and striding towards the village square. Idle men and women of Shkoder that had approached at the tavern's mirthsome noise, unaware of the source, touched their hats or curtsied politely when Quirrell rushed by.

_Where is it? _He thought.

The professor's eyes scanned the stone and thatched roof dwellings, roving for any building that might be host to the village hag. Of course "hag" wasn't the word Besjana had used to describe the "matron of Shkoder Village," but Quirrell wasn't in the mood to be charitable towards the prejudiced inhabitants of this backwater. Near the outskirts of the town, betwixt a soaring pine and the sheer rock of a mountainside, sagged a wide, cylindrical tower of rustic splendor. Unlike the other edifices of Shkoder—mossy, crumbling, and damp—the hag's "hut" was constructed of the darker grey and more magic-resistant basalt. The rock was adorned by a gold-green patina of lichen, which had been magically fashioned to grow as an ornamental pattern of triangles. To the untrained eye the contrast of stone and plant was merely the common labor of an old woman with too much time on her hands. To Quirrell, the triangles formed at least three defensive runes, another series spelling out "DOOM, DEATH, ETC. TO ALL TRESPASSERS."

By now his headache had vanished, and Quirrell's focus had returned with the early night air. Inhaling through his nose, that same night air whooshed into the folds of the professor's cloak, billowing out the black fabric like the wings of a giant bat. As professor Quirrell traced his wand in an overhead circle those sable wings flapped, exaggerating the motion and exhibiting a warning of his own: this wizard also knew power, and had not journeyed to these lands only for it to lie dormant.

"_Verdimillious!"_ Quirrell incantated.

The circle his alder want had traced manifested as an unholy green light, the professor's power then bursting through the ring as a bright green sphere. The spell shot at the tower, exploding into sparks when it made contact with the lichen-drawn defensive runes. When his eyes got used to the dark, Quirrell could see that only one color remained: the dark grey of granite. Disrobed of its defenses, the matron's tower appeared like a maiden exposed when changing, appearing to hide against the mountain for protection rather than the other way around as before.

By now nightfall had made Albania her domain, and shadow prevented any glimpse through the open door of the building. A gnarled hand of ash-grey uncoiled from the doorframe. Noiselessly, wandlessly, it beckoned for the foreigner to enter.

"_Lumos."_

What the Muggles would call a quasar manifested at the end of Quirrell's wand. Loosened by the spell, the turban had partially unraveled; the illuminated purple cloth trailed the wizard like the comet of a star. That orb of light did not waver, and the man advanced with resolute steps.

_Will I finally meet the witch I traveled here to seek? _He thought. _Or is this merely an encounter with Janus? Like the old god of doorways, perhaps it is my fate to close the door on this expedition, so that the new door—a job as the professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts—may begin? _

Quirrell crossed the threshold.

The matron of Shkoder's hut really was a hag. She was clean. Neatly dressed in a homespun brown tunic, and her silver tresses trimmed at the waist. But she was ugly. The witch's eyes could hardly be seen through the hairs of her unibrow, and the creature's wanton jowls hung down to her collarbone.

"Welcome, Quirinus Quirrell." She crooned. "Is Wizarding Albania everything you hoped it would be?"

_I don't sense anyone else here._ Quirrell thought. _We're alone. _

Four ornamental cauldrons located at the cardinal corners of the ceiling provided ample light. Deactivating the wand lighting charm with a mental _nox_, Quirrell found a chair and seated himself. The North Irishman did not lower his wand.

"That depends on how you answer my question." Quirrell countered.

"Besjana is betrothed, you know." The old witch commented.

A muscle in Quirrell's face twitched.

" Tell me, Matron—?"

The hag smiled a full set of teeth, but did not proffer her name.

"—Do you follow Wizarding news outside of the Continent?" Quirrell queried.

"Enough to know your name." She answered. "Tell me, is Dumbledore yet the headmaster of Hogwarts?

The professor nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"And does The Dark Lord's name still carry respect?"

"Respect?"

"We are all pureblood refugees, here in Shkoder."

_She knows where he is! _Quirrell shifted towards the edge of the wooden seat.

_Wait. Do not be so eager, Quirinus! She admitted knowledge, and even tacit support, but that does not necessarily mean this witch has hear__d__ about Voldemort's demise. _

In his solitary quest to find The Dark Lord, Professor Quirrell often found himself the bearer of the "good news." In seeking local guidance as to the possible whereabouts of The Dark Lord, he usually met incredulous "_Te qift bota nanen!" _and more translatable four-letter laments in response to the dark wizard's defeat. Quirrell often found himself pressed for brief explanations as to the when, why, and how.

* * *

Once, a middle-aged wizard claimed to possess knowledge of The Dark Lord's survival. One of the last open loyalists, the man was even rumored to walk around with the dark mark exposed in broad daylight! Upon interrogation, however, the Bosnian admitted to fabricating the connection, even going as far as to recommend to Quirrell the Muggle tattoo parlor where he received his "dark mark."

"For the women, eh?" He drunkenly joked. One of the man's lecherous blue eyes closed in an audible wink. "You'd understand."

"I do understand." Quirrell smiled through his teeth. "Everything I needed to know."

The North Irishman remembered pushing back the chair as he stood up from the table. By then the spiked beer's veritaserum had fully worked through the Bosnian's blood, and in minutes the blue mandrake poison would have run its course as well.

* * *

_The when, the why, and how. By now everyone in Wizarding Britain knew when Vold…when he was defeated: the 31__st__ of October, 2012. By now everyone knew the why: any wizard whom had his followers refer to him as "The Dark Lord" could never truly be considered "__righteous__." And yet, _Quirrell thought, _the questions stopped there. Britain was so relieved at the end of the First Wizarding War that it fails to pay any attention to the seed of what may become the Second. Exactly how was The Dark Lord defeated? _

"The Bond of the Blood Charm." Quirrell stated. "Do you know it?"

"Am I a woman?" The hag cackled.

Quirinus was too repulsed to even consider scrutinizing the witch's body for confirmation. An involuntary twitch of the wizard's face betrayed the professors' thoughts.

"No, that's not it." She answered herself defensively. "You don't get it, do you?"

"Do explain." Quirrell asked.

"While they theoretically could be cast by a wizard, the only historical instances of the charm have been the act of a child's mother. It is a three-part charm." The Albanian witch began. "First, when a magician sacrifices themselves out of pure love for their kin, there is a blood-ward placed on the subject, whom for the next sixty-six heartbeats is completely immune to any magical attack."

Quirrell nodded in understanding. He had read of the three steps before in _The Charms of Pre-Constantinian Europe_, but not a tome in Hogwarts had expounded further.

"Secondly, there is a window of six-hundred and sixty-six heartbeats when the charm must be incantated while the faces of the sacrifice and subject are simultaneously held in the mind."

Quirrell was learning forward, elbows resting on his thighs. He had lowered his wand.

"Thirdly, the charm is sealed when a third member of blood relation accepts the subject of the charm into their home. Until they turn seventeen, the Bond of Blood Charm will foil any harm aimed directly at the subject. Should someone attempt to, well—." The witch leered at Quirrell.

"—Perhaps you'll find out one day."

The matron of Shkoder descended into a hearty series of guffaws at the foreign wizard's expense, but Quirrell was too absorbed in thought to take it personally. He voiced these aloud:

"If The Great One was defeated by the incantation of the 'Bond of the Blood' Charm, then there would be sixty-six heartbeats of opportunity for someone to find out about the attack, and respond by casting the hitherto unknown, second part of the spell."

"Why yes." The hag praised. "You understand."

"And if said wizard—or witch." Quirrell added at the hag narrowing the hairy slits that were her eyes. "Came to the scene as to cast the spell, and did not find The Dark Lord, then that means he escaped in ethereal form!"

Quirrell nearly jumped out of the chair, overjoyed at the new information supporting the professor's own hypothesis.

"Why do you believe The Dark Lord wasn't as dead as his blasted corpse appeared?" Shkoder's matron probed.

Not waiting for Quirrell's response, she continued the conversation with the intruder as if he were a guest over for tea.

"The Prophet reported that the disorganized Death Eaters not captured in the counterattack of the Order of the Phoenix either fled or confessed to everything at the Wizengamot Trials—their spirits were 'finally laid bare, the forces of darkness exposed as the shadow of the air, or the breath of an insect—insignificant, and without purpose."

The hag quoted.

"I don't believe he was dead because The Dark Lord wasn't there!"

For the first time in their conversation, the hag looked troubled.

"You were there?" She asked.

"I was." Quirrell admitted. "At the Headmaster's permission, I removed a biopsy—tissue sample—of the body to take to the coroner."

The witch gave him a puzzled look.

"A Muggle necromancer, trained to confirm and determine cause of death." The professor explained.

The Albanian woman smiled in thanks.

"So even though the mutilated corpse ruled out Draught of Living Death, where there is only the appearance of death, you, whom have traveled this far, have reason to believe my lord yet lives?"

"I do." Quirrell asseverated. "Even a corpse has the echoes of a soul, and yet (upon examination) Britain's own dark wizard possessed not even the trace of a magical signature! It was as if his very essence—what the warlock Ibn 'Abd al Wahhab called _tawhid_, had been emptied out of the man's body long before. This could only be explained if the lifeforce that remained was loose, knocked out, dislodged—."

Quirrell snapped his wand. _Expelliarmus!_

The silent charm had disarmed the attentive hag of her wand. The woman lowered her head in thought. Her jowls quivered slightly, from palsy or fear. The next time she spoke, it was in a very soft whisper.

"What gave it away?"

Quirrell continued where he left off.

"If this was so, there exists the possibility that He was not destroyed, merely banished to wander until night falls again. It is for this possibility that I requested a sabbatical. Before obliviating the Muggle necromancer, I had him write a coronary report of extensive physical modifications in underground medical clinics throughout Europe. Dumbledore gave his Muggle Studies professor paid leave to ascertain the motives behind such visits, and I have been free to travel, learn, and pursue."

Now trembling, the matron of Shkoder was at Professor Quirrell's mercy.

"I will find V-v-voldemort, finish what The Boy Who Lived started, and return to Britain more famous and powerful than even the Headmaster himself!"

Quirrell finished his tirade breathlessly, amazed at his own progress in confidence since the start of the wizard's personal quest.

_And I only stuttered at his name!_

The woman reached out for her wand, then sighed and crumpled to the floor. Extended arms supported her upright; the joints creaking as the witch's bravado disappeared.

_Like the defenses of her tower, the matron needed to put up an imposing front. _Quirrell thought. _Although she possesses prodigious knowledge, her stores of magic dried up a long time ago. _

Quirrell rolled his wrist in circles as he walked up to the witch. He bent his knee as if to shatter the witch's wand underfoot, then thought better of it and brought the soft soles of his boot onto the 7-inch cedar wand. A little bit of weight, and he could hear it beginning to crack. The action of rolling his wrist was matched with a parallel, magical unwinding of his purple turban. The freed-up cloth undulated towards the fallen woman like a snake.

* * *

_There is an old wisdom: that large bodies of water protect against evil._

Quirrell focused on remembering the witch's words as he overlooked Lake Shkoder. Her voice instructed with the authority of an ancient prophetess.

_But the opposite is true! Where there is no current, no wind from the mountains, and no moon…there are refuges. Some say for death. Others say for evil. But the truth is that the blind gods of chaos go beyond that: they existed before centaurs learned from the stars to speak. They existed before wizards used magic for anything other than starting fires, and will lap at the forest shores long after __Muggles __and wizardkind have obliviated the world of their memory. The world ended in water, once. Man may no longer fear the tide, but the earth has a longer memory. It broods in forest lakes. Weeps over forgotten tribes that worshipped on their shores. Towards the south and six miles from the village, you'll find the bastard offspring of Lake Shkoder. It never had a name. _

_Long ago, a barbarian witch drowned herself in that lake—for the Illyrians had killed her fiancé in battle. The two had made love on the sandbank only the night before. One day, that very same tribe of Illyrians made camp by the nameless lakes' shore. They drank, urinated in the water, and found themselves getting sleepy from their celebrations. The blind god wrapped the chief with a magnificent watery blanket of ebony, guiding him to sleep with the rest of his tribe in the depths of that deep comfort. The next day, the corpse of the widowed witch washed on the shore. Her body was bloated and the flesh had rotted, but the terrified survivors could see that she was smiling. And breathing. _

_It is this very lake that now gives refuge to The Dark Lord. May you find him, and find comfort. _

Quirrell stood on the edge of the lake's shore. He had removed his leather boots. Toes curled reflexively as the cold water lapped at his feet, and Quirrell inhaled a deep breath of the 5:00am Albanian morning air. He could hear the sounds of a forest slowly waking up, a few crickets, and gravel crunching behind him.

_How? _Quirrell thought. _I placed wards to keep away any living creature. _

"Move, and I'll curse you!" A woman's voice ordered.

"Besjana Bagfoot?" Quirrell moved as he turned to face her. "What are you doing here, and why are you not at the village?"

"I could ask the same of you."

The woman gestured threateningly with her wand. It was fashioned from a stalk of green cattail, hardened by resin and gracefully carved as if it had been cut while swaying in the morning breeze.

"Unicorn hair core?" Quirrell pressed, trying to diffuse the situation.

"Why are you here?" Besjana interrupted. "You protected our village from the troll, and Shkoder's current matron informed me that you honored our ways by showing her respect, but how could you know the lake was here? I won't ask again."

"She told me."

The woman scowled, her brown eyes narrowing into a pair of sharpened stakes.

"Are you aware of the lake's power?" She asked. "Of what it now hosts?"

Quirrell nodded. He remained in the water, his palms raised in surrender and pants rolled up to his calves. A portion of his black cloak was on the surface of the water. It was slowly drawing water into itself and sinking into the lake.

Besjana contemplated the professor's words for an intermediate moment, the two facing one another. In the silence, the only sound was the quiet lapping of the water, a heron silently stalking for prey on the opposite side of the lake, and the chimes of pine needles blowing in the wind.

"Even if I'm grateful to you, I can't let you kill him!"

Quirrell nervously licked his lips as he fashioned his response.

"The Dark Lord killed d-d-dozens. His followers killed _hundreds_! Is that the kind of man you want to protect?"

"The man I wanted to protect died long ago." Besjana spat. "In the centuries since, I have learned to protect things that are less weak. The Lake. My village. The concept of a Wizarding Albania free to practice its magical heritage without the interference of Muggles."

"I understand." Intoned Quirrell. "But does you l-l-living your culture d-d-demand that other must die?"

"It is in self-defense!" Besjana wailed. The sinister green light of the beginning of _the_ spell appeared at the tip of her wand.

Quirrell stepped back in fear of the witch's wrath. His black cloak, now soaked in water, weighed heavily on his shoulders. The woman's hysterical words played over and over again in the magician's mind.

"Did you say, 'In the centuries s-since?" He stuttered. "How old are you, Besjana Bagfoot?"

"I've killed every foreigner to defile the Lake, starting with those Illyrian _zhul._" The youthful witch grinned.

"Illyrians, as in the tribes that formed the Roman province of Illyricum? You're from the fifth century!" Quirrell's blue eyes widened as he made a revelation. He tightened his turban. "The hag mentioned that you were engaged! Does that mean…that you're the woman from her story? From the legend of this lake?

Besjana didn't deny the claim. Instead, she pressed her lips together, and steadied her cattail wand with both hands.

_The Albanian is steeling herself for the spell that will kill me. _Quirrell thought. _I wonder what her betrothed was like, for the wizard's memory to sustain her all of these years. She must be lonely. _

"Voldemort is evil. He must be d-destroyed!"

"What is evil are the mudbloods introducing their families to our villages without our permission, them and the squibs' children overrunning our ancestral lands, preferring their hated technology and looking down on our values…they intermarry so that no one looks like us; over the centuries, I have watched the slow extinction of my people! That, _Professor_ Quirrell, is what is truly evil!"

The witch's shoulders sagged at the conclusion of her testimony. When she continued it was in a quieter, older voice.

"Do you really want that?" Besjana pleaded.

While she was still talking, Quirrell could feel something slimy moving over his bare feet. Peering into the water, he tried to locate the source of the strange sensation that made him forget about his impending death, the cold of the Albanian morning, and of his own insecurities. It was a snail.

_A freshwater snail: Bithynia. But how large! It must be the size of a football!_ Quirrell marveled.

_Tell her that Dyllion would want her to know that it wasn't her fault. _The snail hissed in Quirrell's head.

_What?!_

"I take no pleasure in this, but you know what comes next. Any last words?" Besjana's voice shook.

Quirrell decided to trust the snail.

"D-D-Dyllion would want you to know that it wasn't your fault."

Besjana dropped her wand. Her muscles all contracted in shock, eyelids opening wide as if she had been hit with a _petrificus totalus. _

"How do you know his name?"

_Show me to her. _

The voice sounded in his head. Quirrell had no doubt it was the work of the snail, but he had never heard a snail speak before. It's words lingered on the "s" when it said, "_show me to her," _enunciating the word with the imperious tone of one who was aware of the power of words. Like a wizard.

While Besjana was lost in her memories, Quirrell stooped down. The transparent water distorted the depth of the lake; the water reached up to the ears of the wizard before his hands were able to scoop the fine sand from underneath the mollusk and lift it up. In doing so, Quirinus' turban fell off.

"_**AVADA KEDAVRA**_!"

A brilliant green. Then, the Killing Curse fizzled out.

_You have to mean it! _The voice mocked. _She is no threat to you, now. _

"What is that?!" Besjana huffed frustratedly.

The snail on his elbow made Quirrell feel as if he was carrying a fulfilled dream of power. Despite being attacked by the Albanian witch only a moment ago, the wizard felt secure—smiling serenely, he approached the shore, picking up Besjana's bobbing wand and handing it to her. He stopped when the water was level with his ankles. The young woman hesitated, then reached out to retrieve her wand. Their fingers touched.

"What is that?"

Besjana repeated herself and gestured to the snail. Her interest piqued, she moved closer. Quirrell could see the fog of her breathing nudge his shoulder.

"I don't know." He answered.

The snail quivered slightly as it moved up the elbow to the extremity of Quirrell's hand, as a ladybug moves up one's finger before it flies away. Moving to protect the creature from the fall to the water, Besjana closed the distance between her and Quirrell. Stepping in front of him, she splayed out her fingers and caught the snail with her right hand. Standing parallel in the nameless lake, the two magicians marveled at the strange creature. By now the sun was beginning to rise over Albania. Forest dew glimmered like diamonds in the morning sun, then evaporated into a thick mist. The wind moaned wantonly, beckoning the fog to gather over the lake. Quirrell and Besjana lost themselves in the shifting symmetry of the snail's shell. Its flesh was white. Completely white. So…pure that the North Irishman's own skin contrasted as ink in comparison.

_I know you don't want to vanquish me for selfless reasons. _

"It spoke!" Besjana started.

_You want to kill me as a means to fame, power, and status. _

"T-t-that is not true!" Quirrell denied.

In response, Besjana pierced the man with her brown eyes and scowled. Quirrell could feel the snail grow heavier in his hand, as the Albanian tightened the grip on her wand.

_Then tell me: what were you going to do after you concluded your business here? _

Quirrell paused, giving serious consideration to the question. The Ravenclaw knew that an honest answer would be the least dignified, but he admitted to himself that he was intrigued by The Dark Snail.

"I would have told Wizarding B-B-B-Britain that they were safe from you, received awards from the Ministry, and n-n-never again be doubted of being a powerful wizard." Quirrell admitted.

"But _are _a powerful wizard!" Besjana objected. "Do the words of others mean that much to you?"

_My servant (though she knows it not) speaks the truth. You can kill me, but what proof would you possess? There exist arts to deceive the pensieve. What then? You'll be called a liar at worst, and your sojourn would have been for naught. At best, even if some agree, your power from then to now will not have changed. You will not have changed. If weakness harasses you, only a coward would solve this by changing places. A wizard would change himself. I, Voldemort, have changed my soul many times, and even in this form, you fear to strike me. Do I not speak the truth? _

Quirrell was quiet. He not only heard the words in his head but felt them as if they were his own thoughts.

_There is no good and evil…only power, and those too weak to understand it. If you want the public humiliation of their doubt and the loss of this opportunity, then strike! Crush my soft flesh. _

_No, Quirinus! _Quirrell heard Besjana's thoughts through The Dark Lord.

_If, however, you desire power beyond human imagination…if you seek new knowledge and discoveries—together! Then embrace me. Do not worry: you will remain in complete control of your body and your faculties. Place your trust in us, and I will help you achieve everything you shared with me. _

At this point Quirrell couldn't distinguish Voldemort's thoughts from his own. Assuming that he would take the only "logical" choice, Besjana reverently cupped the mollusk and waded behind Quirrell. If she had glanced at his face the woman would have witnessed the struggle between Quirrell's will to help others, The Dark Lord's, and the longings of his heart. The strongest will was not his own, nor Voldemort's, but that own nameless lake beneath the consciousness of every man, as deep and ancient as the lake Quirrell stood in now.

Besjana stood behind Quirrell. Facing the shore, the wizard swung his arms back and placed his hands on her elbows, the corrupted wizard guiding what she bore in her hands up to the nape at the back of his skull. The snail attached with a sucking noise. Quirrell's face twitched, then smiled as electricity surged through his nervous system, across the lake, and into the air. Power had come into this place. It banished the thick fog, revealing a red Albanian sunrise.

"Welcome back, my Lord."

Professor Quirinus Quirrell saw Besjana bow through the new set of eyes at the opposite end of his skull. She had gathered his purple turban from the water and held it out reverently in both hands above her head. If anyone from shore was watching they would have seen the man wrap the wet cloth around his head, wipe its dripping water from his blue eyes, and then seize the witch's collar. Anyone watching would have seen two reflections kissing passionately, and the rebirth of The Dark Lord. 2,000 miles away, through a scrying glass, Dumbledore was watching. The headmaster put down the glass, walked to his office window, and issued the appropriate four letter prophecy.


End file.
